Over
by captainodonewithyou
Summary: Killian tries on some modern day clothes and Neal walks in on a heated moment. (pirate)


A steady litany of cursing streamed from behind the bedroom door, accompanied by the occasional loud bang or cry of annoyance. Emma sighed and leaned against the wall behind her, arms crossed. He'd been in the room for a good ten minutes now and she was beginning to wonder if it was, perhaps, impossible put on a pair of jeans with only one hand.  
They'd been 'dating', if you could call it that, for a couple weeks now. Emma wasn't really one for relationships, not since Neal. But after destroying the Wicked Witch she hadn't been able to come up with any more excuses, anything else to put between him and her. Henry was safe, she was home. All in all her feelings for him were hard to ignore and his were even harder. A relationship hadn't been intended, but somehow falling into one had just… happened. It had been strangely easy. And it felt strangely right.  
They hadn't exactly announced it to the town, but people seemed to be beginning to catch on. Emma Swan wasn't exactly one to go out for casual dinners with someone— but with Hook, it had happened more than once. He shouldn't necessarily have a reason to buy flowers from Mr. French's shop— he'd been in nearly thrice, nonetheless. She'd put off the clothing shopping as long as she could, sure that as soon as she was out buying jeans in a size much to big for Henry, the secret would be out. But there came a point when she could only tolerate so much leather—a lot said for a girl with a closet so full of leather coats. So she'd finally worked up her courage and done it.  
He was amused, when she'd invited him over and shoved the bags into his arms. That was until he realized she was dead serious about him trying them on.  
It was hard to avoid the thought that Captain fricking Hook was trying on clothes in her bedroom.  
"Are you about done?" she finally called anxiously. His voice had died out and she was hoping he hadn't found a way to hang himself with the damn pants. Skinny jeans had been a stupid idea, but it was just about the only jeans carried anymore, at least in Storybrooke.  
He remained silent, but only a moment later the handle turned and the door began to creep open. He peered out from behind it and Emma raised an eyebrow expectantly.  
"Well?"  
"These clothes are bloody ridiculous," he answered bluntly, eyes shifting uncomfortably away from hers. Emma fought back a smirk.  
"Are you scared?" she teased, biting her lip but failing to hide her grin. His eyes narrowed into a firm glare. "Hook, you've worn the same outfit for 300 years."  
"Aye, a good outfit," he agreed, eyes lighting to her challenge. "Leather suits me, love. I think you'd agree," he smirked at her and she rolled her eyes.  
"You just spent ten minutes getting dressed," she sighed, "At least show me."  
"I'd rather not," he said through his smirk, which was looking rather more like a grimace now.  
Emma knew he wasn't fond of changes— she wasn't either. She understood his hesitance and uncomfortableness fully. But she also knew that the only way he'd ever feel comfortable in Storybrooke, in the real world, long term… was to slowly adapt. And starting small with his wardrobe was the only was to eventually get him there.  
"You have to start somewhere," she finally told him gently, meeting his strangely uncomfortable eyes. He held her gaze and finally sighed softly.  
"You're a minx, you are," he growled, but his eyes were marginally softer. He took another deep breath and as he let it out his eyes softened the rest of the way. "If you laugh, Swan, I swear to God-"  
"I'm not going to laugh," she interrupted honestly, "Just show me," she urged gently, "Please."  
He sighed again but slowly, slowly, sidestepped the door and slinked out in front of it. Emma's heart fluttered a bit and she swallowed hard— she'd never even been able to imagine him wearing anything but leather.  
He looked beyond attractive.  
Despite his moaning, the jeans fit him perfectly, hugging in all the right places and framing his damn legs better than even the leather. Her eyes traveled up his body to the flannel button up, which he certainly hadn't buttoned up. It shouldn't have surprised her, really. But it did make her heart pound even harder against her chest. The red of the shirt complimented his dark hair (which was disheveled from the process) gorgeously. She halfheartedly closed her mouth, which had fallen open somewhere along the line. His slouching posture, after reading her response, had righted considerably.  
"Well?" he asked expectantly, although the glint in his eye told her he knew damn well what she thought. The last thing his all-encompassing ego needed was to be fed.  
"You forgot to button your shirt," she glowered at him and he smirked.  
"Oh, it's most certainly buttoned, love," he assured her, smile widening. She was so perturbed by his effortless ease. He didn't even have to try to be gorgeous and it was infuriating.  
"You're such a jerk," she muttered, standing upright and stepping towards him.  
She stopped just in front of him, hesitating a bit. But then she took a breath, heart skipping a beat as she reached forward and grasped the next button up from where he'd stopped— hardly above his belly button. To her satisfaction, he tensed up and she could hear his breath catch. She did the button, slowly, and then the next, all the while loving her perfect view and his inability to function. It wasn't until she stopped— just a couple buttons from the top, like any regular idiot wore his shirts— that he breathed.  
"Better, darling?" he asked with failed snark. She smirked softly to herself as she stared at the ground, wiping it away as she peered up at him.  
"Much," she assured him, "For future reference, this is the decent amount of skin to be shown in public," she added, keeping her face as serious as she could while still holding his gaze.  
She expected a presumptuous and sassy response but he said nothing, still staring at her with those beautiful blue eyes full of unspoken emotion. She could see his heart in his eyes. The magnetic pull she felt between them, the longing to touch him, seemed to multiply and she suddenly felt like she was hanging out in the middle of space and all she could do was gravitate towards him.  
She felt herself lift to her toes, running her hands up his chest to clutch his unusually flannel-clad shoulders. They paused, faces a breath away from each other, just staring into each others eyes. But then she couldn't wait even a moment longer and she drifted forward, just a hair, so her lips brushed his.  
He kissed her, gently at first, moving cautiously with her. But then his hand came to her hip and his hook wrapped around to the small of her back, pressing gently. Something in her chest lit up and she leaned closer to him, turning her head to deepen the kiss. Her hand twisted up his neck and into his silky hair, pulling him closer to her still. The kiss was all passion and suddenly she wished he weren't wearing the stupid shirt and that he wasn't so stupidly attractive and that she didn't turn into a lusty teenager around him but a larger part of her simply didn't care.  
She thought she heard a noise from the front of her apartment but somewhere in all the making out it slips her mind.  
He broke off so they could both gasp briefly for air before returning dizzily back to each others lips and Emma faintly realizes how nice this is. How she can kiss him and let him kiss her and love her without the nagging voice in the back of her mind insisting that it wouldn't last. That it couldn't last. That he didn't really love her. Because he'd proven to her that he loved her, and anything else was ridiculous.  
"What the hell."  
It took Emma a moment to realize the voice was a real voice, that wasn't hers or Hook's, in her apartment. Which led her to peel from Hook's chest suddenly, jumping into a semi-guarded stance. She was still reeling from the kiss, still somewhere between reality and that clouded half-sensed frenzy he could put her in without even trying. So it took her a few seconds to analyze and put together the picture in front of her.  
"What are you doing in my apartment?" she asked defensively, as soon as she had half a grip on the situation. It was Neal, looking flustered and vaguely violated. And Emma could care less.  
"Were you just-" he began, looking beyond appalled.  
"What the hell are you doing in my apartment!?" she repeated. Anger was boiling up inside of her and she knew it was clouding her judgement but she couldn't bring herself to care. She felt Hook tense beside her but her rage didn't falter.  
"I was just coming by to—" he stopped again, still looking uncomfortably between her and Hook, "Em, what are-"  
"Oh my God Neal, tell me how and why you—"  
"Look, I just came to see you. Henry-"  
"Did you take his key?" she accused, finally meeting his eyes. His shifty silence was all she needed to hear, "You lifted a damn key off of our son!" she cried, taking a step towards him. Hook gently grasped her shoulder, holding her back more than he could have known. Or perhaps he did.  
"Actually, I think there's a more pressing matter at hand!" he answered, hardly phased by her accusation. Emma opened her mouth to try to form some sort of reasonable rebuttal but her mind was too clouded. Finally, she said the only thing she could think to say.  
"What the HELL is wrong with you!?" her voice echoed around them and an uncomfortable silence followed. She felt Hook shift slightly behind her and he squeezed her shoulder gently, a cautious reminder that he had her back. And Neal, damn him, still could only stare at her in utter disbelief. Finally, his eyes shifted to Hook.  
"You said you were backing off," he muttered. Emma still desperately wanted to punch him in the gut for what a fricking idiot he was, but Hook's hand on her shoulder kept her still. She was at a loss of words.  
"Aye, over a year ago mate," he answered, voice strangely gentle. Cautious, almost. It was remarkable, coming from his lips. But, Emma reminded herself, he still held himself accountable for ruining Neal's life. It made her head spin.  
"Kissing her is not backing off," Neal responded, still hardly having moved.  
"You-" Emma began, but Hook interrupted sharply.  
"We came to an agreement that this was up to Emma, Bae," his voice was still gentle, but it hitched at her name. "We agreed-"  
"Emma," Neal was looking at her now and he looked positively heartbroken. His eyes were wide and she knew the look well.  
For a short moment she felt 17 again, staring into the eyes of the man she'd been sure she'd spend her forever with. But following that came the pain, all over again. The pain of him leaving her and the pain of her realizing that he'd never and would never love her like she loved him. She'd felt exactly how he looked now— abandoned, unloved, and alone. And she wouldn't wish that pain on anyone. But there was nothing else she could do, nothing else she could say. She felt hot tears rising to her eyes and internally cursed herself, taking a small step back towards Killian.  
"I'm sorry," she breathed, and she meant it. She really did.  
But she couldn't be with him. Not with someone who every time she looked at him reminded her of all the pain and failure of her past. Not someone who made her feel so unimportant and alone and forgotten. She could still feel the pressure of Killian's hand, holding her shoulder firmly but reassuringly. Killian who made her feel like the most remarkable, loved and important person to grace the earth. She couldn't choose Neal over Killian.  
Neal was still watching them, somewhere between anger and abandonment. But then his eyes softened and he looked simply defeated.  
"You're happy with him," he said. It started like a question, but ended in a firm statement. He could see her happiness, he'd been with her long enough to.  
"I am," her voice quivered slightly. "I'm happy," she repeated, with more strength behind her voice.  
"Right," now it's his voice that breaks and she feels even worse. But somehow the pain she feels for him is separate from her own happiness— and she doesn't feel responsible. "Right, well," his voice catches again, and he sighs, "I should, uh, go," he finally manages, backing slowly away.  
"Neal-" Emma begins, hesitantly stepping forward, away from Hook's comforting hand. He pauses, watching her carefully, "Just… Promise you'll still be in Henry's life."  
It hurts her to say it, but she can't imagine shoving Neal from their son's life. He couldn't lose his parents like they'd lost theirs. Neal of all people should understand.  
"Of course, Em," he said, smiling ever so softly. And then he left.

Killian wrapped his arms around her just a moment later. He embraced her ever so gently and, as she freed her arms to hug him back, an almost frightening openness filled her that she hadn't felt in 12 years. It took her a moment to swallow and consider the strange lightness she felt. To realize that all the pain and the guilt and the loneliness she'd felt from her past was nowhere to be felt. She felt like the world had been lifted from her shoulders.


End file.
